Title: Good For You

Disclaimer: No ownership, but I did help teach some awesome middle schoolers to play the steel drums.

Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.

Chapter 7:

"Hey," he murmurs, running his hand over her sweat-matted hair, smiling as she blinks up at him.

"Hi," she rasps, reaching out a heavy hand to cup his cheek. "How long s'I out?"

He laughs and bends forward to press his lips to her forehead, careful of the light weight in his arms. "'Bout an hour."

"Gimme," she slurs, slowly propping herself up in the bed, hands extended, fingers curling.

"I told you she's bossy," he whispers to the tiny baby, passing her carefully to his exhausted wife. He tries to keep his eyes on his daughter, but he finds himself drawn to Kate instead, to the blinding, brilliant smile that ignites her face at the sight of the pink, squirming bundle.

"Don't listen to daddy," she coos, bending to kiss her daughter's downy head. "I'm not bossy. I'm just right."

"A subtle distinction I think might be too advanced for five hours," he says, laughing as she tears her gaze away to meet his eyes. "You're glowing."

"I'm a mess, but thank you," she whispers, leaning into him as he arches over the bed, a hand on the headboard behind her, his other on the retractable arm. They turn to look back down at the baby, little blue eyes searching up at them, her mouth open in a small, silent, 'o.'

"Hey, beautiful," Kate says softly. "Finally awake for momma, huh?"

"She woke up about twenty minutes ago, quiet, staring around. She looks at everything," he tells her, still completely blindsided by the wisdom in his daughter's tiny eyes, the recognition as he talked to her, like she knows him already. He's probably projecting, but he believes it.

"You're a smarty already," Kate tells the little girl, a finger stroking down the tiny cheek. "Gonna be like your big sister."

"She's going to be so upset she missed it," he says, wishing that he could have both his girls here. Alexis is on her way back from California, from the summer Masters research program she did at Stanford. She begged Kate to wait, her cheek on her stomach, instructing her little sister to come only once she'd gotten back.

Seems little Imogen isn't good at taking direction. But Alexis will be thrilled either way. She'll touch down to fourteen messages, from both of them—one riddled with shrieking as Kate went through her last few contractions before birth. He hopes it doesn't ward his kid off of having children, a long long time from now.

"But she can take Im for a few hours, let us sleep before we go home," Kate assures him, her eyes tracking her daughter's as the little blue ones roam around, taking in that short distance before things go fuzzy.

"You ready?" he asks, brushing the hair off of her face.

"I hate hospitals," she says, nodding vigorously, her eyes still glued to their daughter's. "But this was worth it."

(…)

He jerks awake, neck protesting angrily. He fell asleep in his desk chair, his laptop precariously resting on his thighs where his legs are propped up on the desk. He's lucky it didn't fall. He hasn't backed up the four chapters he managed to churn out. They're probably crap, but they're something at least, and Gina will have to deal.

They did keep him occupied. He's been deep into it ever since Kate left, kissing his cheek before quietly slipping out of his office and out of his loft. It got silent and still and he couldn't deal with it, so he lost himself, succumbed to an alternate reality and escaped there.

It's dark now, and he doesn't remember the light fading. He also doesn't think he's eaten, so he hauls himself up, groaning, since there's no one to hear him in his pathetic age. He's still sore from the take-down, and there's a lingering ache that has nothing to do with violence and everything to do with Kate. That ache he likes, relishes, even. Can't regret the activities that strained him that way.

He tiredly makes a ham sandwich. Kate must have gotten the deli meat. He doesn't remember picking it up.

Kate. Kate holding their baby daughter, Imogen, a fantasy, a dream, a vision. He takes a large gulp of milk and closes his eyes, tries to block it out. They haven't talked about the future. He knows they're for keeps, that much is certain; there can be no one else. But marriage, babies, pensions, rocking chairs? They haven't discussed it.

He's old. Things creak and crack. Sometimes he can't go more than a round. Then again, sometimes he can go as long as she can, his young, hot, beautiful girlfriend. He sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter, stretching out his legs. Kate's young enough for children. Kate's still so very young, and she'll want those things, he hopes. He wants them too. He'll be the dad who goes gray, who turns sixty when his kids turn twenty. He had Alexis young. It might be nice to have another one with wisdom behind him.

It might be nice to have another one with Kate beside him. His partner— someone to tag-team the midnight feedings, nightmares with little tears, potty training, diapers. It might be nice to do it right, to give his daughter, his son, a mother, a good mother. A mother who's motherless—he could give Kate that back, somewhat, a substitute, a bond.

It can't replace her mother, but he thinks it might help. He knows it would ease his heart. He's seen the way she's a balm for Alexis, the way the hugs and touches, conversation, soothe over nearly nineteen years of hurt. She's not her mother, but they're something special for each other, somewhere between mother and daughter and sisters, he thinks, strange as that is.

Maybe he could give her a daughter, give her a balm for her wound, give her what she gives to Alexis. But he doesn't know if she wants children, or marriage, or any of it. She may just want this, a life with him full of sex and laughter and freedom. She hasn't lived, not fully. She's been trapped by this thing since she was Alexis' age.

It staggers him and he falls heavily onto one of the stools. His daughter's age. She was his daughter's age. A few months of the care-free life Alexis leads—that's all she got. And then her world shattered, and she hasn't lived until now, hasn't been free of that weight until now.

He grinds his palms into his eyes, rubbing against the itch from too much screen and the sting of tears he's too strung out to fight. They have time. She's young, and it's not like his virility will die in a year, two even. The ultimate inequality—he can have children for life, while she really only safely has the next seven years, and that's pushing it.

But they could do a hell of a lot of living in a year or two, before even talking about it. So they won't be young parents, big deal. Then again, maybe she doesn't want kids. He really needs to have this conversation with her, not without her. Probably should think about a ring first.

Marriage. The word tugs at him and he rubs his fingers over his left hand, scraping over the empty place where he's worn two wedding rings already. Two too many—it hurts sometimes, to think that even if she's it, she doesn't get to be the only one. She wouldn't be the only Mrs. Castle.

He snorts and shakes his head. He can't see her taking his name. Then again, he doesn't know. Man, does he need to see her Dad about this? Would she kill him for that, or think he's sweet? Where's Alexis when he needs her? Hell, where's his mother? Even she might have clearer eyes for it.

He's still spinning stories, his mind still in overdrive from pushing through four chapters in five hours, then falling into a futuristic sleep filled with the scent of baby and the wide, grateful, full eyes of his girlfriend, wife, Kate. He stands abruptly and walks back into his office, pausing with his hands on his hips. He can't do more work, but it's only eight; it's early yet. He rubs at his neck, sore, and decides he can whittle away an hour in the shower.

Her absence is starting to get to him now, with the loft so still, so quiet around him. He clenches his fists and forces himself through and into the bathroom, denying himself the thought of curling up around her pillow. He's pathetic. He grabs his cell, can't help it, and brings it into the bathroom; but he won't use it. He promised.

The water's hot on his skin, stinging faintly over cuts that are almost healed, over the knuckles that don't seem to want to bend. He realizes the binge of writing probably wasn't great on them. She's got arnica for them around somewhere, brought it over after she took a fall a few weeks ago. It's finding it that will be the problem. The woman has the most disorganized sense of order he's ever seen. She knows where everything goes, but there's no reason to it—toothpaste with the feminine stuff, oranges by the chicken.

His cell rings and he nearly tangles himself up in the curtain trying to get to it. He stubs his toe on the way out and curses as he nabs a towel and dries his hand, picking up on the last ring before voicemail.

"Castle," he manages, rubbing his bruised toe against his shin, grimacing at himself, pink and splotchy in the mirror.

"Hey."

"Kate?" He watches his eyes grow wide as she sniffles. Sniffles. Shit.

"I…hey," she says quietly.

"What's wrong?" He's already stumbling out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, half soaked, searching for boxers as she breathes over the line.

"Did you get any writing done?" she asks, throwing him as he hops into his jeans.

"Yeah," he replies. "But Kate? What's the matter?"

She gives a watery laugh that does nothing to calm him down and hums a little. "Nothing's wrong," she assures him, though her voice is so far from reassuring. "You wrote?"

"Four chapters," he offers, pressing the speaker and dropping the phone to the bed to shrug into a tee shirt. He picks the phone back up but hasn't missed anything. Her silence is unnerving. "Are you…how was your appointment?" he asks carefully, running a hand through his wet, unmanageable hair.

"Good," She breathes. She sounds so strung out. But he can't ask, can't initiate. That she's called at all is monumental. "Good, just…are you still writing?"

He stands there in his mess of a bedroom, their clothes strewn everywhere, the sheets a crumpled mess at the bottom of the bed. "No, I'm done for tonight."

There's more silence as he digs his bare feet into the wood. "Could you…" she sighs and then takes a shaking, deep breath. "Wanna come over?"

"Yes," he says, trying to make himself sound a bit less desperate, but he's already half out the door, shoes barely on his feet. He locks the door as an afterthought, throwing himself into the elevator that's already at his floor. "I'll be there in fifteen. Ten, if I'm lucky."

"There's no rush," she murmurs, but he can hear relief there, and so much exhaustion.

"On my way," he says, going for calm, collected, as the elevator pops open. They're speaking more without words than with them, but that's okay. "You wanna stay on the line with me?"

"No," she whispers. "I'm…I'm okay. Use your key?"

He blinks and throws his arm out for a taxi. Something's wrong and he'll definitely crash the car if he tries to drive. "Sure."

"See you soon," she mumbles, and the line goes dead.

He groans and slumps, tapping his foot as he waits for the cab to make its way to him. He yanks the door open and hops inside, nearly barking the address at the cabbie. The man shrugs and pulls off from the curb, gliding them through the light traffic.

He tries to tamp down the worry. She sounded fine—tired and strung out, but fine. She would have told him if she was in danger, would have used some sort of code, probably involving fruit or coffee or always or something. Maybe he does need to write more. Nikki and Rook could have a code like that, pineapples and danishes.

He shakes his head and focuses on calming the ever increasing pound of his heart. She's fine. He's fine. She just needs…him? She needs him. Somehow, twistedly, that is a balm to his panicked soul, and he relaxes against the worn leather, watching the city lights go by. She asked for him. She needs him.

He takes the stairs at her place, and were he not so intent on her, he'd be proud of the fact that he's not even winded four flights up as he fishes his keys from his pocket. He opens her door, careful to make some noise, but not too much. She hasn't been as jumpy as he has, but he knows the sounds still put her on edge, has felt her tense at the bangs on the street, or the way the refrigerator closes with a small slam.

"Kate?" he calls out, locking the door behind him. He pads through to the kitchen and stands at the threshold to the living room, waiting on her.

"In here," she calls out and he turns, heads for the office.

She's there, still in the tee shirt and jeans she left in, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair's back in a pony tail that's been toyed with. She looks so fragile, holding herself together as she stands in front of the murder board, the shutters thrown open.

"Hey," he says softly, moving to stand beside her, a foot or so between them.

"Hi," she offers, her eyes still glued to the board. "You're wet."

He chuckles and takes the hand she extends to him. "I was in the shower."

"You could have dried off," she mutters, finally turning to look at him, meeting his eyes with her red-rimmed ones. She's been crying, a lot, by the looks of it. Her beautiful face is puffy, pink, and her nose is red—rubbed raw by tissues.

He shrugs and tentatively reaches out to cup her cheek. "You okay?"

She blinks at him and begins to nod, before shaking her head and leaning forward into his chest, wrapping her arms around him. His hand moves to thread into her hair, finding the curve of her skull as she relaxes against him. He feels himself sinking around her, relief and gratitude and comfort enveloping him as her breath hits his neck.

"I need your help with something," she whispers into his skin.

"Anything," he promises. He'd probably assist in murder at this point. Though, his brain points out wryly, he's actually already done that—punched out her assassin before she shot him dead. It's a loss of life for which he'll never have regrets.

She pulls back and gives him the most tentative smile he's ever seen on her. "I want to take it down."

He pauses for a moment before it hits him. The murder board. She's ready. "Okay."

"And I couldn't," she takes a deep breath. "I couldn't do it. Hours, Castle. I've been here looking at it for hours."

Oh, Kate.

"And I thought—" she breaks off and huffs out a small sound, something like a laugh, maybe, or a breathy sob. "Maybe we can do it together. Maybe you need," she squeezes his shoulder. "Maybe you need it too."

"Oh, Kate," he breathes, staring at her. She waited for him, wants him to help her do this monumental thing, wants him there for her closure, wants to give him closure too. "Of course," he manages, his throat tight with things he can't make out, things he wants to say but are stuck behind his heavy, astounded heart.

(…)

"You're sure we should be here?" he asks as they ride the elevator back up. She's leaning heavily against his shoulder, eyes closed tight, breathing regulated and steady through a hell of a lot of effort. Putting that box back into the stacks made his eyes water. He can't imagine what it's done to her.

But he can't keep quiet. There's just something about walking into the bullpen at 11pm that feels off, especially when she's been put on leave for two weeks. "Kate," he presses.

"It's the Precinct, Castle, not Nam. We'll survive," she mumbles, picking herself up, her mask falling into place, but for the pinky she's left wrapped through his, a touchstone for them both. "I need my charger."

"We can both use mine," he protests as the doors open and she drags him out.

"Chill, seriously," she reprimands him, turning back to give him a look.

So he's being melodramatic. There's nothing new about that. Jeez, why are the boys still here?

"Beckett," Ryan exclaims, jumping up from the side of his desk, where he and Esposito were perched, staring at a partially full board. "And Castle. What are you doing here?"

"Good to see you too, Ryan," Kate says on a small laugh, releasing his hand to root around in one of her drawers.

"He meant, Beckett, so good to see you," Esposito corrects as he joins his partner on the other side of Kate's desk. "Why are you here?"

"Forgot my phone charger," she mutters, opening another drawer. "Castle, did you move it?"

"Move your charger?" he asks, confused. "Seriously?"

She huffs and stands up, all confidence and irritation, no trace remaining of the woman who wept into his neck, curled on the floor of her apartment, her mother's case closed up in a file box.

"Yes ser—"

"Beckett," Gates barks out, her head popping out of the doorway to her office.

"Sir," she says immediately, caught.

"My office. Castle," she adds in greeting.

Kate gives them all a wary look and walks to the Captain's office. What's she even still doing here?

"Oh, I borrowed her charger," Ryan says suddenly, jetting back to his desk. "Damn."

"Dude," Esposito chides, taking it as Ryan tosses it over. He hands it to Castle, who rolls up the cord and sticks it in his pocket, where it creates a nicely unpleasant bulge that presses into his hip. Lovely.

"Why are you guys really here?" Ryan asks as he makes his way back over to them.

Castle attempts to look innocent, but really, they're detectives, and it's been a long day. "We were putting the case back in the stacks," he says softly.

Both of the boys deflate. "How is she?" Espo asks, concerned and brotherly, and Castle feels a swell of affection for the both of them.

"Okay," he says honestly. "Hurting but I think—" he breaks off to make sure Kate's not about to emerge and catch them in the act of talking about her. "I think she's getting there."

Ryan nods and glances at Esposito. "You taking care of her?"

"Kind of takes care of herself," he says and watches as the two guys share an amused look. "But I am, as much as she'll let me."

"Good," Esposito says, eyeing him shrewdly. "You better."

"Javi," Castle says, his voice gruffer than he means it to be. He really needs to figure out how to have a cool to find again. "You know I'll do everything I can, everything she'll let me do."

He stares him down for a moment before cracking a smile, reaching out to bump Ryan's fist. "You're a good guy, Castle," Ryan says with an approving nod. "We trust you."

"Man, I'd kind of hope so, by now," he says, laughing along with them, surprised and pleased and a little insulted by the vetting all at once.

"Well, it's not like this is new," Esposito concedes. "How new is it?"

"Lanie didn't tell you?" he asks, surprised. He immediately regrets it as Espo's eyes go wide and Ryan snickers into his hand.

"I'm gonna kill that woman," Espo seethes while Ryan laughs openly.

"I may not be on the job right now, but I can still run you up for threats, Esposito," Kate announces as they shift their attention back to her. Without her heels, it's so much harder to hear her coming.

And right now, she looks worn out. He doesn't see Gates watching, but he's not about to risk it, so he merely takes out the charger to show her. She smiles softly and reaches out to squeeze the boys' shoulders.

"Everything good, guys?"

"Very," Ryan says, shooting her a winning smile as Esposito knocks into her shoulder.

"Got a fresh one, but we're not allowed to discuss it with you," Espo adds.

"Not for a month," Kate sighs, meeting Castle's eyes. The ache in them has him searching his brain for a quick way to get them out. A month—something's not right.

Espo and Ryan look confused, but don't offer any commentary, merely squeezing her hands before sending her back to him. They make a few quick overtures, decide on a poker game in a few days, and then they're back in the elevator.

They're silent for a moment as the doors close and the car starts moving. "Kate?" he hedges, staying away, waiting for her move.

"Burke recommended that I take more than two weeks," she mumbles, not looking at him, eyes fixed on the moving numbers over the door. "I said I'd think on it but," she stops and lets out a low breath.

"Can he do that?" Castle wonders.

"I signed a waiver after the sniper case. I gave him permission. Just." She bites her lip and looks up at him.

"You just didn't think he'd need to use it," he finished for her. "Kate."

She shakes her head. "This was a good step," she asserts. "And I'll get back to it."

"I have no doubts," he assures her, stepping closer to take her hand.

"Gates might actually approve," she says, her voice so soft against the ring of the lobby as they step out.

"Approve?"

"Of us," she says, squeezing his hand.

"Really?" He's almost distracted enough to forget about the month. Clever woman, but he's not distracted enough. He'll humor her though. He's not about to push, not tonight.

"Nodded to you when she told me to make sure I took care of myself, got rest, relaxed."

He glances over to see her smiling softly, her eyes on their hands, their feet. "Imagine that."

She laughs and pulls him to the curb with her, bringing her hand up. "Don't have to," she tells him, meeting his eyes when she flags down a taxi.

He smiles and bends down slowly, grinning against her lips as she lifts up to meet him. "We'll have fun," he promises when they break apart.

She nods, eyes full and a little broken, but there with him. "I know."